


What won't be missed.

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chara Is Their Own Warning, Character Death, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Frisk, Post-Undertale Neutral Route, canon typical deaths and dying, the justification for many a theft, the kids aren't alright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: You’ve been here too many times. The sun is going to set in about an hour, and you have choices to make.After a series of Neutral runs, Frisk decides they've achieved the happiest ending possible, for the Underground. Their time on the Surface gives them other ideas.





	What won't be missed.

**Author's Note:**

> For my dearest of Snaps. May you always find passion and joy in the things you love.

* * *

**At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago.**

* * *

 

When your eyes adjust to the world around you, it’s bathed in a golden light. Several, blind steps forward could’ve sent you tumbling over the cliff edge in front of you; a precipice which overlooks the wide, rolling valley beneath it, trees which gladly reflect the light of the soon to be vanishing sun. In the distance, you can see the vast skyscrapers of the city you were born, lights a seemingly constant, welcoming beacon.

You’ve been here too many times. The sun is going to set in about an hour, and you have choices to make.

The edge of the cliff gains nary a look from you; an option explored in the past with no good results acquired. Fumbling with the knife in your belt, you kneel by the entrance of the cave; the very same one you’d just come from. Dull steel is coated with sticky plant sap- and dust.

Such a little body shouldn’t be capable of creating so much dust. The remnants of white powder are harder to discern, once you drive the blade into the soil. Right down to the hilt.

You don’t need it anymore.

And yet you kneel by it for longer, perhaps, then is necessary. Staring down at the old leather wrapped around the hilt, the worn, darker spots where the oil from another’s hand had long since left impressions. Blueprints, which helped you figure out how to hold it, the first time. How to hold it so you could take a swing. How to hold it and possibly survive.

There is only so much that you can do, and in your own way, you’ve come to understand your limitations. That your actions have consequence, but only so many. The script differs, but stays the same. You stay with your mother, a day longer. You don’t. You like crosswords over junior jumbles, you go on a date. You pour water over a friend in need or you leave them to their own devices; options, and outcomes, and differences. After a while it all becomes the same.

You’ve done your best. You’ve done your best, and your worst, a hundred times over. And nothing really changes. Except for you.

Exhaling slowly, you get back to your feet, ignoring the protest of your knees and ankles. It feels like you never really stop walking; even after falling down vast holes. Even after being dropped off rickety bridges. Can’t stop, even when you’re sore.

But you’re done, now. It’s time to go.

Part of you is waiting to see what they have to say about that, but they say nothing. Not even when you leave the knife behind, not when you look to the city, and its unwavering lights, seemingly constant beacons to welcome you home- and then walk in the opposite direction. You think, just once, you’d like to know how they feel about something; you’d like if they got a little angry, or told you what they’d like to happen, now. What they want to do next. No such answer is forthcoming, and whilst that’s not a surprise, it’s still disappointing. It’s still sad...and perhaps a little lonely.

You walked up this mountain alone, and despite the constant, guiding voice in your mind, one that’s always stayed with you before, you still feel like you’re walking down it alone, too. Not a mad decent by any means, but slow. You have to be careful not to trip, to potentially come to an end even faster than any other options you’ve tried have taken you.

The side of the mountain is covered in thick overgrowth and thick outcroppings of trees that snatch at your jeans and your sweater, adding marks where there weren’t any before, creating scratches and scuffs to tender flesh that’s seen worse, nothing to call home about.

Your lips twitch upwards a little. That was a joke.

You hardly make it to the base of the mountain before night truly falls, and things become even more dangerous and foreign. There’s an exhilaration to that idea which keeps any fear at bay; the idea of doing something new, seeing things you haven’t seen before. You carefully examine each and every tree. Every outline the branches and leaves make against the night sky as your fingers curl into your sleeves, numb from the cold.

If you’d walked down the other side of the mountain, you would have reached the city by dawn, and you know that you’ll have a cough for two weeks afterwards, and that the cough will get worse, and never better. One night, you’d snuck into the kitchen and taken some painkillers from the cupboard above the stove, just so you could sleep.

You only ever did it once.

For now, your breathing is easy, and there’s no whistle to every exhale, no wheeze when your lungs fill with air. You march on with the calm understanding that you need to take advantage of that, because if you’re too slow, you’ll get sick, and if you’re still sick before you reach somewhere to stay, you probably won’t make it anywhere at all. That’s happened before, too.

_You consider that a lot of things have happened to you before._

It’s true. A lot of things have happened to you before. And that’s okay.

You’re still Determined.

Just as the stars begin to vanish from the sky overhead, you find somewhere to stay- for a little while. The windows of the house are dark, and you tell yourself that you don’t really need to stay for too long; the barn is unlocked, and there’s chickens, and they’re cute, clucking at you from their nests in neat little rows that line a good amount of the space about you, angular shadows in the darkness turning into chicken-sized ramps if you squint at them long enough.

It smells like feathers, and dirt, and there’s hay on the floor. It smells clean enough; more importantly, it’s warm. You don’t even realize how cold you are until you’ve flopped down into it, your body immediately beginning a series of violent shudders that take a very long time to calm down.

Your nose feels stuffy, which is the start of your cough. That’s okay. Even if you don’t feel well when you wake up, you’ll have slept, and you can keep walking a little. Just a little more, and then- maybe you’ll find somewhere better. Somewhere you never have to close your eyes, and smell the scent of flowers getting stronger and stronger in your nostrils.

“...Chara? Are you there?” You stare up at the ceiling; at a gap in the wood. The more your eyes adjust, the more out of place it looks; the inky black of wood in comparison to the deep, dark blue of the sky. You wait, for something. Anything; just the slightest sense that they’re still there, still listening.

“...Are you mad at me?”

Still no answer. Maybe they’re already asleep; you don’t know how to tell, when they aren’t talking. Or at least, placing that gentle pressure on the back of your neck, letting you know it’s time to listen.

There’s none of that right now, so maybe they are asleep.

Or maybe they’re disappointed in you.

Trying to sleep with that thought on your mind isn’t easy, and you watch the hole in the roof for some time. A piece of hay tickles the back of your neck, and you stay still, waiting. Just for- a sign. Something.

That they haven’t given up on you, like you did to the monsters.

You don’t get that sign.

 

* * *

 

The next time you open your eyes, it’s because a chicken darts over your face, clucking irritably and flapping its wings. The last vestiges of winter are holding tightly to the air about you, making your lungs feel like they’re full of fuzz.

There’s a shadow in the open doorway, casting over your prone form, and you don’t stay still for very long.

The eyes that meet your own are surprised, but not unkind. The thing that attracts your attention the most is the shawl across her shoulders; made with a simple stitch (and you wouldn’t really know that, except you do, and it doesn’t really surprise you); soft and warm. It’s a swirl of pretty browns and oranges that makes you think of autumn instead of early spring, and you long to curl your fingers into the textures.

The high flush on your cheeks has nothing to do with the selfish fantasy of warm clothes. You’re sick. It doesn’t seem to matter when the difference between inside and outside is the old woman blocking your path. You try not to let your mind think of other old women, blocking your path.

Sunlight isn’t fire, you tell yourself. Her shawl isn’t fire, either. She’s alive.

She is, too. She never picks up her phone. And now she’s probably too busy to talk to you.

_You consider that it’s better to be busy than be dead._

And your eyes sting; from relief, you think, and the almost unbearable itch, in the inside of your nose. She’s not here, but Chara is. That’s enough.

“...Well now,” The lady finally says, and her voice is thin, and soft, but so very strong. Though the surprise remains, she also gives you a smile; something that used to put you at ease, though now you hold yourself back and wait to see what happens. Humans might not have magic; it doesn’t stop them from doing terrible things.

When you remain silent, she holds her arm up a little higher, empty basket hanging in the crook of her elbow. “I’m sorry, dear, but you don’t seem to be a chicken.”

“Sorry.” You tell her; or try to, but the most that comes out is a quiet ‘s’, before the word is stolen by a sneeze. You rub at your nose, and stray bits of straw fall from your sleeve.

She laughs, and just like her shawl, the sound reminds you of playfully crinkling leaves, and your lips twitch upwards uncertainly as she takes you in with an almost knowing glint to her eyes, the creases around them deepening the wider her smile becomes.

“In that case, would you like to be my helper, this morning? The sooner we collect these eggs, the sooner we can go inside, and have a nice cup of tea.”

You want to say yes. You want to say yes so badly, because inside is warm, and tea is warmer still. You can practically feel the phantom heat pooling into your stomach- stronger still is the soft pressure of Chara on the back of your neck, and a wariness that doesn’t want to go away.

So you watch, instead. When she moves away from the doorway, you move as well, always maintaining the same distance, and she cheerfully tells you the name of all her birds as she checks every nest in turn. That’s Whiskers, and there’s Mittens, and Fido. The black and white speckled one is simply named Dog.

The more names she tells you, the more your brow creases, and she thinks that’s funny too.

Her name is Autumn, and when she goes inside, she comes back fifteen minutes later with tea and cookies, gently telling you to keep your goods out of the chicken’s way. You’re left to hunker back down on the hay, carefully sipping at the sweet tea as your new… roommates? Cluck and saunter about you. It’s nice, and quiet. It’s about the warmest you’ve been since you left New Home, which makes it the perfect time to think.

When you do your best, and you don’t kill anybody- even if he always, always dies… Sans calls you in three weeks. Papyrus would talk to you, too, and Undyne, even if you’re not sure that burning someone’s house down should really count as becoming friends. You don’t have a charger, and even if the nice old lady has a phone, you’re not going to use it- if you even could, to call people in the Underground. It probably doesn’t work like that.

You should turn your phone off. You know what he’s going to say, and what Papyrus is going to say...and what Undyne is going to say, too. That doesn’t mean you don’t want to hear it, again.

You might not hear them say anything else for a very long time.

“Chara?” Your second thought, of course, is on the presence that’s been with you all this time. Or at least, they haven’t gone away since you woke up; maybe because they’re just as weary of the old lady as you are. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.”

One time, you’d asked them if they were imaginary. The response had come fast and swift; the first and only time you can remember them sounding even a little angry. _No, I’m not imaginary,_ they’d told you, and you’re pretty sure that means they’re a monster too. The only one who’s ever made it to the Surface because of you.

The only one who will. That’s not the way it’s supposed to happen, you know, and this doesn’t count as staying Determined. Asgore is dead, and Fl-

Nothing bad is going to happen in the Underground anymore, you think. As long as you don’t die. As long as you don’t RESET. It’s not the happy ending you’re supposed to give everyone, and you know it, which means they know it too.

“It’s just us now. Even if you’re mad...please don’t leave me.”

_Get some sleep._

It’s not a yes or no, but it’s another answer. You content yourself with the fact that they’ve spoken twice today, finishing the tea and cookies before curling up to comply. It’s the least you can do.

And when you wake up later, you’re worse. Through a foggy head and raspy breaths, you can hear someone talking to you; gentle hands help you up, and out of the barn, into the house. You sit on the edge of a soft mattress as someone helps you get your shoes off, and when you’re tucked in, you can’t help the sad whine that escapes you. A tremulous smile and a hand that reaches out to grasp white fur.

“Mom.”

The hand that brushes your hair out of your eyes doesn’t have fur, and the only thing that your hand catches is cloth.

 

* * *

 

Though the first few days are a blur of fever, Autumn keeps you in bed for a week. Once you’re a little more awake, she spends a little more time with you, and the pressure at the back of your neck never lessens, even if your own reservations do.

Your life becomes a series of warm blankets, soups, and little white tablets, offered with a glass of water and a calm voice that tells you she can cut them in half, if you have trouble swallowing. After an hour of staring down at the little pills on the bedside table, you actually manage to take them.

She’s not mad when they’re gone.

It’s entirely thanks to her that you’re up on the eighth day, bundled up in a cushy rocking chair in the living room. It rains today, just like you remember. Autumn doesn’t seem to mind. She chatters with you- or to you, mostly. The ever-present sound of her voice is soothing, and she never asks for an answer, just pauses patiently whenever you decide to speak up a little.

She had a husband once, and she talks of him very fondly. She doesn’t say where he is, and you don’t ask, but the absence of another, comfy rocking chair instead of the couch that seems mostly untouched seemingly saddens you a lot more than it does her.

When she sits down on the couch, she has a little trouble, laughing at your concerned look and telling you that her knees aren’t what they used to be before settling down with a basket of knitting, and talking to you some more. Your time is split between listening to her and staring out the window, or glancing down at the lines of stitching that ceaselessly pour from the needles held between wizened fingers.

“After we came to this country, my husband bought the land out here. This house was a dream of our, from when we were very young. So much of the original building was made with his own hands…” And she laughs again, knitting shaking gently in her lap. “Perhaps that’s why the original house is now the barn.”

You smile, though the joke goes wildly over your head.

“We always intended to have a big family; lots of children, and grandchildren.” The crinkles around her eyes are so deep, when she smiles. You know that means she’s happy. “A house like this was meant to hear the sound of many little feet.”

You glance around; at the mantle over the fire, and the bookshelves on the far wall. There’s pictures; of a happy couple through the ages, older photos helping you recognize Autumn, the younger she appears. Even one of her on her wedding day, in a pretty white dress. The same man who appears in many other photos stands at her side, very handsome in a grey, buttoned up suit. No kids, though.

“We may have lost track of time; never mind. I think the house has enjoyed your stay, wouldn’t you?”

She really is too nice.

The next day, it isn’t raining. Once again you find yourself bundled up on the rocking chair, though it’s not long before boredom has you stealing away from it, carefully leaving the blankets bundled neatly on the seat as you wander through the house; a series of mostly empty, dusty rooms, and a second floor that looks like it hasn’t been touched in a very long time.

_Nothing to see, here._ Chara tells you, and you think they’re as bored as you are. The air outside is still a little crisp, but your lungs don’t hurt when you breathe in, and you’re only a little tired, by the time you reach the barn. Autumn looks up when the hens fuss at your intrusion, tutting softly when you shrink back in the doorway.

“You’ll catch another cold, wandering around like that. But if you’re well enough to be outside, how about helping me with these eggs?” You nod so fast your hair whips against your cheek, and you hold her basket with careful dedication, keeping to her side with every move she makes. Everything you do seems to amuse her, to some extent, and you’re not sure if it’s in a mean way.

Chara’s quiet, even if they’re here, so it’s not...mean, mean, even if she is poking fun.

“You know, I’m glad to see you up and about now,” Autumn tells you. She lets you continue to carry the basket of eggs towards the house, and you copy her as she makes big, exaggerated steps across the pavement. Like there’s something wrong with the cracks and lines, or the floor is lava. “You were in such a state when I brought you inside… did you come from the mountain, child?”

Looking up at her, you shrug, which is about as nonchalant as you can be

“Mm…” She slows, and you slow, and together, you both look up at the mountain. Today, the top is hardly visible through the low cloud cover, making it look more mysterious than ever.

“Did your momma take you hiking up there?” Her words make you flinch, gaze going from the tall peak above, straight to the ground. To Autumn’s feet, pointed towards you. And slowly, you shake your head.

“You were calling for her, those first few nights. She must be a very good lady, having such a bright child like you.” Her fingers brush back your hair, nails lightly dragging over your scalp. And your eyes sting, but this time, you know it’s not because your nose is itching. “Maybe we should give her a call-”

“No.” Autumn, when you look up at her, has her mouth open. You think that she’s probably going to insist; that she’ll remind you that your mom must really miss you, must want to know you’re safe. You look up at her, and the words never come.

You go back inside without her, and when she does come after you, you’re already back in bed. Not asleep, but…

You pretend to be.

 

* * *

 

“...Hi mom. I know the dog has your phone, but I hope you got it back. I hope…”

“I miss you mom. I want to come _Home._ ”

 

* * *

 

Autumn never asks about your mom again. And as you get better, you take more and more to being outside, exploring the world about you. It’s weird to think that her house is just on the other side of the mountain, that the city isn’t really all that far, because it kind of feels like a whole other world.

You might as well be in the middle of nowhere. After your first month, the only people you see outside of your new roommate are the postman and another, kindly man, who drops off some groceries once a week. You never introduce yourself, or even get to close, but you overhear him asking about you, and the blasé response Autumn gives in turn.

“My grandchild is staying with me for the summer.”

The longer you stay, the less pressure Chara puts on the back of your neck, whenever you spend time with her. She shows you how to make halloumi and souvlaki, and a few more weeks pass before she presents you with a warm, knitted shawl of your own. Black and white, with a soft, knitted hat. There’s cat ears stitched to the beanie, and whiskers on the front; you can tug the shawl right over your nose, perfectly disguised like a feline- which the chickens don’t appreciate at all.

You do. Autumn...doesn’t, after the first time. You stop.

Chara is a little put off when you stop.

The rest of the summer is spent trying to make that up to them; or really, spent...with them. The moments where you wonder about when you were supposed to be back at school comes and goes, lost to days wading in creeks and finding fox holes, encouraging Chara, usually so very quiet in your mind, to speak to you more often, more than just observations on your mental state, or options for your next steps. You like to think you get somewhere, after the first time they make a joke.

You know you’ve gotten somewhere, when the first night the two of you spend in your new room, dusted off and made ready just for you, in lovely shades of yellow and green, they ask if you can sleep under the bed. You don’t know why, exactly, they want to sleep under the bed, but you never say no when they ask. Ever.

It’s wonderful. It’s really wonderful, and for a while, you get to forget about everything. You forget about the city on the other side of the mountain, and you forget about why you climbed it in the first place. You forget the cloying smell of flowers, outside of your dreams. You forget- to check your phone, and when you remember you’ve forgotten, you spend the rest of the afternoon with the black object settled in your lap, chewing on your bottom lip.

You leave it off.

When it comes down to it, you know...you did your best, down there. Nobody died except Asgore, who always died. Nobody died except Asgore...and Flowey, who you couldn’t- Chara tells you, and you agree; he couldn’t stay if you left. You couldn’t let him make good on his promise, to kill everyone you love.

_He would’ve. We did our best._

Putting your phone in the top drawer of your bedside table, you forget it for the summer, and well into the autumn; when the days get shorter, and the air begins to become bitterly cold, you and Autumn spend more time inside together, reading books and cooking and knitting, even if you aren’t very good at it, yet. Chara is surprisingly encouraging, on that front, and your first creation is a lopsided beanie that Autumn never takes off.

You think you love her, a little. You think she loves you too. Sometimes, she lets you curl on the couch with her, and runs her fingers through your hair; and just before you fall asleep, you imagine you can feel her fur.

Some days, Autumn falls asleep on the couch with you, too. It’s not very nice for her back in the morning, but she never complains. You try to keep it in mind anyway.

Part of you thinks this is how things are going to stay. That’s not how life works.

The last day is very quiet. Again, it’s cold outside, heavy clouds overhead threatening rain and obscuring most of the mountain above. The two of you spend your time in the living room; you make breakfast, after Autumn admits that she’s feeling a little tired, today. You let her stay in her rocking chair as you make some oats, and when you’re done eating, you do the dishes too, careful not to drop anything as you stand on tiptoes by the sink.

Autumn has a lot of books, and even if you’re not the fastest reader, she introduces you to them, one by one. You’ve read The Hobbit, and all of the Tales of King Arthur. You’re halfway through The Secret Garden, which is difficult to read alone when all the characters are written with an accent that’s barely decipherable, but you do your best, intrigued by Mistress Mary and her happy little Robin, the grumpy gardener and Colin, the little boy hidden from the world.

From your place on the couch, you curl your toes under the blankets, caught in the moment as the lord of manor returns home, to see his son laughing and running through the gardens that once meant so much to him. It’s not the most thrilling book, nor the most thrilling conclusion. What you like the most is how even though he’d been so far away, he came home.

A smile pulls at the corners of your mouth as you look up. You’re proud; of yourself, for reading so much of this book on your own. That you didn’t even have to ask Chara for much help. That Mary made so many people happy, just by being herself, and that happy contentment slips, a little, when Autumn doesn’t look up from the knitting folded in her lap. With her chin dipped down to her chest, she’s...fallen asleep.

_Make lunch, then wake her._ Chara suggests, and you nod absently as you fumble your way off the couch, resting your book on the arm and wandering into the kitchen with one last, mildly concerned glance. Sometimes you don’t sleep well at night either, and you lose the whole day to sleep. Autumn would be just as disappointed as you are, losing so much time.

_Less disappointed if you make her pancakes._ You don’t think that’s a lunch food, but it is easy to make. You pull everything out of its respective place with the ease of someone who knows your surroundings, wrinkling your nose when you get a little flour on the floor, but you can clean it up later. The important thing is the smell; warm and buttery, invading the kitchen and, by extension, the lounge as well.

A small stack is all you need. You know Autumn likes blueberries with her pancakes, and a little bit of cream. You get out one of her favorite plates; the white ones with orange and purple chickens around the edge, and when you sneak back out to hand her the plate, you’re proud of yourself. It’s a lot of good achievements, for one day. She wouldn’t have to worry about you eating, if she sees you can take care of yourself.

She hasn’t moved at all in the time you’ve been gone. Smile fading, you wander closer, gently reaching out and giving her shoulder a small shake. Then another.

_Hey, Frisk._

Her head- moves, a little. Lulls to the side, but still, her eyes don’t open. Chara presses down on your neck sharply, sharp enough that you almost drop the plate.

_Frisk, stop. Put the plate down._

You-

You put the plate down. On the little table by her rocking chair, watching Autumn with a growing sense of perplexed anxiety. She still doesn’t move, even when you softly call her name. You don’t think her chest is moving, either.

Death, you’ve learned, is a fairly violent thing. Messy and unavoidable. You’d never known that it could be this quiet.

You also can’t deny that’s precisely what’s happened, when a soft green light fills the room, and her SOUL appears, floating gently above her chest. Unwavering, even as you stand there and take it in, all too slow on the uptake.

_Frisk._

_Frisk. It’s time to go._

But you can’t. You stand there, watching her- the hands that rest over her knitting, and her chest that doesn’t move, and her eyes that don’t open; and the SOUL, floating above all that, bathing you in a soft, green light that’s always reminded you of your mom.

“...She fell down.”

_Yes, Frisk,_ And Chara’s voice is so very gentle, as they confirm the question that wasn’t even a question at all. _She fell down. She was old._

“That’s her SOUL.”

_Yes._ Chara goes quiet, after that, for what seems like an eternity. And though they don’t really have a voice to speak to you, you imagine that their next words sound very, very odd. _Yes, it is._

Lips pursing, you flex your fingers, still staring down at it. If you touch it, you think- you think it might disappear forever. And you don’t want that.

You don’t know what you’re going to do with it, but you don’t want that. Spinning on your heel, you rush back into the kitchen; to the pantry, where a hessian bag full of plastic bags hangs on the back of the door. You just need the one.

Even through the plastic, her SOUL keeps glowing. And it stays when you drag the bag towards yourself, as you carefully tie it into a knot.

You take it into your room, a plastic bag with a SOUL inside of it, and you sit on the edge of your bed, not even sure what to say.

_It’s okay, you know. That she died._ The sharp pressure in your neck has died down to something softer, like they’re rubbing your skin, instead of pushing you into action. _She was old. Maybe she’ll get to see her husband again, in another life._

“But I have her SOUL.”

_...Yes you do._

“...Should I let it go?”

_Probably._ Chara sounds thoughtful; it’s easier to focus on that than the fact that Autumn is both in the room with you, and still in the living room, forever frozen over her knitting. _I don’t know; if there’s an afterlife, I never went to it. But then, I don’t really have my SOUL anymore. Just you._

“Just me.”

_Still just you, Frisk._

It makes you wonder a little more about them. If they died, which it sounds like- maybe they did. If they don’t have a SOUL anymore. If they don’t have their SOUL, where did it go? Is it in the afterlife, waiting for them?

If you don’t need your SOUL to get to the afterlife, or- if your SOUL doesn’t need you, to get there, then-

“What if I kept it.”

_Why?_

“Because I can take it back to the Underground.”

More silence, as the idea sinks into Chara. As you think it over more yourself, watching the green glow through the plastic dance across your hands. Like a living current. What’s left of Autumn, in the living room; it’s not alive anymore.

What’s in your hands right now very much is.

_It wouldn’t work. They still need seven, remember? Seven human SOULs._ Chara reminds you, and they sound tired. Wary. _If you go back with one SOUL, they’ll just take yours, too._

“I can bring seven.”

They’d had six before; and you remember them. You remember the feel of each and every one; both the harm and the healing pulses of their characters, a tiny glimpse at the people they had once been. They’d been there… for a very long time, you think. And now they’re gone. Just like you.

The difference is, you could still come back. And Autumn, dead in one room, was very much alive in the other.

Her SOUL rests in a plastic bag in your hands, and with little thought behind the action, you take your phone out of your nightstand, and turn it on.

You have three new messages.

Ignoring the vicious twist in your chest, you browse through the options, straight to Dimensional Box A. There’s still some stuff in it. The heart locket. A slice of butterscotch pie. The latter is carefully transferred to Box B, alongside a hotcat and a faded ribbon. The second stays on the bed, as you transfer one PLASTIC BAGGED SOUL into your storage, safe, and out of sight.

“We can bring seven, Chara. We can bring seven back, just like that.”

One thing from the Underground that always made you sad was the tale of the first human. So full of love, they’d died before they even got to live their life; they never got to become an adult, never got to play just one more time with their brother. You would always, always listen to their story, always quiet. Respectful. Because something about that first Fallen Human made you feel like...you had to do something. You had to save all the people they’d left behind, that child with eyes full of hope.

Maybe you never really had the option to do that Underground, but now you do. You can still save them all. And maybe it’s you, or it’s Chara, but as you look down at that locket, you feel something you haven’t felt in a very long time.

The thought of coming back and saving them all, it fills you…

_With Determination._

 

* * *

 

 

  _ **Message, received, 13 days ago.**_

 

"Greetings, my child. It is Toriel, your friend and guardian. I..."

"I am sorry, little one, for how long it has taken me to call. I have been very busy, and it has taken me some time, to collect my phone from the little white dog who had taken it. Did you meet that dog? I must assume that you did."

"...I miss you too, my dearest one. The Underground has changed so very much, and Asgore's passing is but one blow our- my people must now learn to manage. I assume that Sans has told you, of the six SOULs. But perhaps he has not told you of how much you are missed."

"And you are missed, my child. What happened; that is not upon you. It was foolish, to allow you to leave on your own, and to pretend that everything would be alright. As much as I tried to follow you, I was simply too late. It is not your fault."

"When you are ready, my child; when you are ready, and if you want to, please, come home. You have many wonderful friends who wish to see you again."

"And I will always be here for you."

 

_**Press one to repeat message. To save message, press two.** _

_**To delete message, press five.** _

 

 

_**Message saved.** _


End file.
